Anything Said: April 2006

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Heeding the call

This weekend, Cletus the Fetus made a lot of demands.

First, she/he/it demanded that I give up the dream, face reality, and realize that my regular clothes no longer fit. As Cletus is as of yet unable to communicate with me verbally, she/he/it passed along this important message by persistently growing -- so much so that over the course of about a week and a half I have become unable to fasten the majority of my pants without a serious struggle and accompanying creative burst of exclamatory language. Which Cletus finds amusing, of course, because no child of mine is going to be scandalized by a little healthy cursing.

For my first stab at shopping for maternity clothes, I ambled over to the Motherhood Maternity store that's located just a couple of blocks from my house. While decidedly neither young nor hip, Motherhood seemed to be by far the cheapest outlet for new maternity clothes that I could find -- my preliminary online searches for stylish duds yielded little but $125 "Pea in the Pod" pants and $75 "Mimi Maternity" sweaters. Motherhood mostly had $25 jeans and tops, and for that kind of price range I decided I could ignore the rack of red, white, and blue "American Mom" tank-tops that stood in the front window and give the store a shot. Plus, when you walk in the door at MM, one of the disinterested 17-year-old salesgirls looks up from her magazine and calls out a half-hearted "Welcome to Motherhood," which is just - whoa - hilarious and all kinds of meta.

So maternity clothes? Are weird. Like, in a lot of ways they look just like normal clothes, but then the pants all have these stretchy bands of cloth across the top to hold in your distended belly, and the shirts all have a mile's worth of extra fabric in the front. I thought the jeans looked especially weird on the rack -- from the hips down, they looked normal; from the hips up: no zipper, no snap, just a row of navy cotton several inches high. I took a pair back to the dressing room, along with some dress pants and a few shirts. The dress pants all ended up making me look dumpy and gross -- especially when I applied the Prosthetic Belly (!) that is kept hanging on a hook in each dressing room, I guess to allow women to approximate what they will look like by the end of their pregnancy, I don't know, whatever, it weirded me out -- but the jeans, oh the jeans. As soon as I put on the jeans, I had a new understanding of and appreciation for that stretchy band of fabric. It's a MAGIC stretchy band of fabric; it lets your belly breathe and be comfy, and it holds up the jeans, and - bonus! - it's mostly hidden underneath your shirt, so your jeans just look like regular jeans to the untrained eye. I am totally a convert.

I was less lucky, though, when I tried to find something I could wear to work. After trying on a bunch of stuff and traveling to Target to experience their interpretation of "maternity clothes" (read: dumping a bunch of size 18-24 pants in a back corner along with some hooded sweatshirts and a smile), I decided to take a colleague's advice and order a couple of Bella Bands, knit bands you wear around the waist to hold up your obscenely unfastened remember-the-days-before-you-were-toting-the-progeny pants, so as to extend the life of my regular work clothes a little longer. I'm also hoping to find some online bargains at Old Navy and the like, or some resale shops offering maternity-wear. And if any of you reading this have any other ideas as to how I might clothe myself in the coming months without having to sell the dog for science, please do share.

And speaking of the dog... Cletus the Fetus is concerned about how the husband and I will be able to balance caring for a baby and The Pug Who Poops On The Hardwood Floor at the same time. That's why she/he/it demanded that we attend a seminar this afternoon on the topic of how to prepare one's dog for the imminent arrival of a human sibling. The seminar was held at a shelter in downtown Chicago, and we sloughed through the Sunday muck and drizzle to attend. Honestly, in my several-hours-later-and-wiser opinion, we needn't have bothered.

First of all, the presenter rambled. And rambled and rambled. Second, she couldn't work the technology. Now, I can understand and empathize with the frustration of an unpreventable technological malfunction, but this was a case of someone simply not knowing her stuff. Which is lame. But the worst part? Was some of the meandering dog psycho-babble the speaker was spouting. At one point, while discussing common dog behavioral problems, the woman popped a DVD into her player in order to show us some videotaped examples of cues, or "warning signs", we should look out for from our canine companions, things for which we should be on high alert lest our puppies go berzerk and swallow our babies whole. There were no less than 40 of these cues, and they included the following dangerous tics: sneezing, blinking, yawning, lip-licking, scratching, and -- not at all kidding here -- licking of the genitals. Essentially: being a dog.

Now, I'm all for being prepared. I know that making sure our dog and our baby get along is a serious matter, and the husband and I want to do everything we can to make the big transition as smooth as we possibly can for the puppy. But if I have to shield wee Cletus from peril every time the pug snorts or breathes, it's going to take about three whole days before I turn into one of the crazies who spend their days at the public library, talking to the photocopier and sleeping on the floor.

I had more to say on this topic, but I'm going to have to cut this short. Cletus the Fetus's most recent demand, a chili-cheese dog and onion rings from the Tasty Dog drive-thru, is having its evil way with my digestive system. Quite the unrelenting wretch, the unborn.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Charting the progress of my pregnancy while wearing a shirt that says "cooter"

When Laurie gave me my Florida Cooter Festival t-shirt last year, I had no idea it would become such an invaluable pregnancy accessory.

See, from the back I just look benignly crass and tasteless. When I'm out walking the dog, the neighborhood old ladies behind me can simply shake their heads and shrug at another young woman gone wrong. But then I turn around to offer up a side-view and it's...

AAARGH!!! Lock up your daughters! The foul-mouthed wench is reproducing!

T-shirts are really the only articles of clothing that make me look visibly pregnant right now. I usually wear sweaters or button-downs to work, so no one ever notices or comments on Cletus the Fetus' rapid growth of late. When I'm at home, though, I put on sweats and a short-sleeved top and waddle conspicuously around the house, rubbing the belly, occasionally emitting a little groan so as to garner sympathy from the husband, the dog, or my imaginary friends on the television.

On Monday, I popped out of my pants at work. Like, I was sitting down behind the reference desk, and some old guy was standing in front of me wailing about how the copy machine had just stolen his dime, his nickel, and his will to live, and I started to stand up so that I could walk over and retrieve his change from the clearly marked "Pick Up Your Change Here" tray where his coins would assuredly be resting peacefully, and as I did so I felt a curious Freedom Of The Groin. As well as a gust of air where no breeze should've been flowing. I sat back down and put a hand to my waist, where I found that the two clasps holding the top of my slacks together had sprung open against the strain of my stretching belly.

I excused myself and turned my back to the patron so I could attempt to refasten. At the time, it seemed like the polite thing to do. Now, knowing that the old guy would go on to bark orders at me for the next five minutes ("But where are my copies?! And why is this machine so hard to use?! Is this what my tax dollars are paying for?! Well YOU do it FOR ME then, if you know so much!"), I might've chosen to hike up my shirt and let Cletus the Fetus give him the finger while I forced the top of my pants together right before his very eyes. Oh well. There's always next time.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Hey ladies: it's superfecta night!

Almost exactly two years ago, the husband and I tried gambling for the first time. We were at a casino in Reno, Nevada, where we lost a total of about twenty bucks and got as angry and resentful over it as if we had lost a thousand. Gambling, we decided, was Not Our Thing.

But then we moved to Illinois. And I got a job out in the burbs, with a daily commute leading me past a giant illuminated horse-racing track called Maywood Park. The first time we drove by the track, the husband let out a giant cackle and announced, "Oh, we are SO going there." I was not so sure. I come from Indiana, where such things are not universally viewed as ironic. But then I got pregnant, and passed into my second trimester. And the flashing digital sign in front of Maywood Park started advertising an all-you-can-eat buffet. And lo, it was decided. To Maywood Park we would go.

Last night, upon pulling into a parking lot marked by an alarming number of trucks bearing American flags, I was delighted to learn that we had chosen just the right time to begin our love affair with horse racing: it was ladies' night. A free gift for every lady! Score! Maybe there would be a bonus prize for being knocked up? There was only one way to find out. The husband and I shuffled through the front entrance and stood blinking into an unfamiliar world.

We were greeted by a friendly woman who pointed us in the direction of the dining room, told us where we could get the best view of the horses, and handed me a slip of paper I could use to redeem my ladies' night surprise. I asked her if she was allowed to tell me in advance what the free gift was, and she leaned in conspiratorially: "I think it's a car wash, honey." I thanked her so as to avoid expressing my true feelings ("Meh.") aloud, and the husband and I proceeded through a turnstile and up an escalator into the Maywood Park "Favorites Lounge."

So the "Favorites Lounge"? Was not my favorite. In fact, it filled me with fear and disdain and made me want to run back to the car with my tail between my legs. It was a dim, smoky room filled with men, only men, who were sitting alone or in small groups at scattered round tables and staring at simulcast horse races on television screens. We rushed through, making nervous small talk with each other, feeling wholly out of our element. Through a hallway and around a corner, we found ourselves at the dining room: tables and chairs arranged in bleacher-formation and set up behind a wall of windows through which one could watch the races. At the epicenter of the whole configuration was the all-you-can-eat buffet, a dazzling display of midwestern delicacies like tubs of iceberg lettuce, vats of ranch dressing, trays of orange-colored cheese cubes, and the obligatory carving stations. Our eyes were saucers at the wrongness of it all. Cletus the Fetus asked for extra bacon bits. We filled our plates and took our seats.

We studied our Official Maywood Park program while we ate. We did not understand. Everyone around us was at least 20 years older than us and clearly knew the score. My only "knowledge" of horse-racing comes from reading Seabiscuit, so I expected there to be tiny men riding glorious horses in front of adoring, cheering crowds. But the tiny men rode in little flat half-carriages behind the horses, and the only crowd appeared to be us, feeding our faces, peering through glass. Every time a new race started, the lights in the dining room would go dark and the diners would turn their heads toward the window and watch as the animals rode two big circles around the track. An announcer would call out the names of the leaders like an auctioneer. People who had bet money on the race would give periodic hollers when their horse made a move.

The horses all had funny names, like "Objectionyourhonor," Park It Amy," and "Kickalittle Bootie." The program gave us little predictions about which horses were expected to do well in each race. The predictions seemed to be written in code: "Didn't have the easiest trips last week, but a crafty drive to get her out of trouble paid off nicely." Or: "Freehold shipper didn't do much in a needed start, but she has plenty of experience over our local oval." Still, the husband and I picked favorites anyway, and watched as our choices glided to easy wins in the first few races. "We've got to bet, at least once," said the husband, encouraged. "Uh-uh," I shook my head, spooked by the line of smoking old men waiting to place their wagers. "Ok, I'll go," the husband bravely announced, and rose to take his place among the masses, four dollar bills in hand to apply towards support of the upcoming race's favored horse, "Chin Music."

"Chin Music" was supposed to be a sure thing. She had the best odds of all the horses in the featured race, and she was even highlighted with a little picture and write-up on the inside cover of the program. We placed a "Show" wager for "Chin Music," meaning that she didn't even have to win -- all she had to do was place in the top three, and we would be showered with riches as a result. The husband made our bet and returned to the table, grinning, confident in our brilliance, sure of our ultimate success. What could go wrong?

People, that bitch came in Last Place. I'm talking dead last, never had a chance, LAST. Our wrath and shame knew no bounds. I guess this meant that gambling really was just Not Our Thing. I shoved a buffet brownie into my face and we were on our way, back through the lounge of lonely men and their cigars, back past the window where ladies could claim their free car washes, back out the door and into the glaringly patriotic parking lot. From that evening forward, my commute would be forever changed. Where there used to be a smile and a "We are SO going there," there now would be the shaking of fists and a plaintive cry of "Damn you, Chin Music!" called out into a faintly smoky sky...

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Random sources of alarm

1. I dreamed last night that I witnessed the birth of Katie Holmes' and Tom Cruise's baby. Then I woke up this morning, went online, and was greeted by a CNN headline announcing the actual not-in-my-dreams birth of said child. Ok, I know I'm a little too obsessed with celebrity gossip for my own good and probably for the good of all humankind, but this is just out of hand. My subconscious is a portal into the inner sanctum of the Cruise-Holmes reality. I can predict their every move. I can see them in the dark.

2. Also last night, I dreamed that I was trapped on a ship with a huge crowd of people, one of whom was my favorite American Idol contestant, Elliott Yamin. Elliott and I shared a room on the ship, where we slept side by side on separate twin beds. I told him about how I called in and voted for him after Tuesday night's show (for reals, I did, and that phone line was busy as a bee), and he told me I was funny and sweet and then he asked me out on a date. I told him I had a crush on him and he blushed. And then the ship was raided by some kind of military forces, I don't know... anyway, the good part of the dream was over by then.

3. Yesterday at work, an old man patron tried to grab me by the nametag I wear on a cord around my neck. I was so startled I almost whacked him off his walker. I mean, I know he's old and afflicted and all, but dude: boundaries! No means no, take back the night, and all that. No touching the librarians! My mom used to work in the dementia unit of a nursing home, and those sweet little old men would get all kinds of sexually violent with the female nursing staff. They may look frail, but once some of their facilities start to go, they know not what they do.

4. Where are the prenatal yoga DVDs for women who are not interested in rubbing their bellies so as to become one with their "mommy power"? This mommy just wants to stretch, exercise, and become more bendy. This mommy went out and spent $19.99 on a yoga mat from Target and she intends to use it, with or without a pregnant supermodel-looking yoga instructor informing her that she is experiencing the most wonderful set of bodily circumstances imaginable. This mommy is looking for a DVD hosted by a semi-haggard looking woman in sweats who eats a bowl of ice cream on camera before saying, "Hey, congratulations! You're pregnant! Don't you feel kind of like ass? Let's do some squats and make it better."

5. The husband bought a laptop, and it's a shiny silver Mac. I am afraid of Macs. The desktop icons mock me. Control-alt-delete doesn't work. Is my husband a Mac person now? Will he become too flashy for me? Am I going to have to accept that date with Elliott Yamin?

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Self-indulgent wallowing, party of one

Having something fun to look forward to is a double-edged sword. I mean, on one hand there is the fun thing, which you get to anticipate and then enjoy. But on the other hand there is the inevitable aftermath, the blah mopey feeling that takes over when the fun thing has come and gone. It's like the way Christmas felt when you were a little kid: you stayed up all night on Christmas Eve, spent the whole next day knee-deep in an orgy of shredded gift wrap and new toys and cake frosting, and then woke up on December 26th to eat a PBJ sandwich and watch your parents take down all the decorations.

This weekend the husband and I had our own fun thing to enjoy and subsequently mope over: a visit from our faraway friends Hucpuc, Mrs. Pants, and her boyfriend Mr. Chumpy. They brought us Anna's Tacqueria burritos wrapped tightly in foil, DVD boxed sets of Afterschool Specials from the 70s and 80s, and a stylish track jacket for our fitness-impaired dog. They made up dances in our dining room, ate fondue on our coffee table, and had drinks with us at the top of the Hancock Center. They asked lots of questions about Cletus the Fetus and didn't press the issue when I gave short answers because being the only person I know who is pregnant is Freaking My Shit Out.

About two hours ago, after only a minimum of clutching and pleading on our part to try and convince them to stay forever, our friends (quite selfishly) departed to pursue their own lives and interests. And now the house is empty and quiet and littered with Dorito crumbs. It's the way a house looks after you've had a really good time in it. Back in Boston, our apartment used to look like this a lot. Lately? Lately, we keep things looking pretty clean.

Sometimes I wonder if I make all the wrong decisions in life. It's not that I'm particularly unhappy or even unsatisfied, you know? But it's like this: we wanted to move back to the Midwest because Boston was faraway, elitist, and we wanted to be close to our families. I missed my parents so badly sometimes it twisted my heart into a little pretzel. Now we've lived in Chicago for almost 6 months, I've seen family only a handful of times, and I miss my Boston friends every day, sometimes with a ferocity that puts my pretzel-heart to shame. I wanted to work part-time instead of full-time once we moved to Chicago, in part because we were planning to get pregnant post-haste and I thought it would be nice to set myself up with a good, comfortable part-time position to which I could return after having a baby. I neglected to consider the fact that part-time employees are not guaranteed maternity leave, especially not part-time employees who have only been with the organization for less than a year before giving birth. Now my boss refuses to meet my eye whenever the conversation turns to my pregnancy and I fear I'll be forced to choose between a 2-week post-baby break or unemployment.

I know in life there are no guarantees. If we had stayed in Boston with Mrs. Pants and Mr. Chumpy and all the other friends we love so much, I would probably still be spending half my waking hours talking long-distance on the phone to my mom and bitching about Boston drivers, Boston overcrowding, and drunk Boston Red Sox fans clogging up the Green Line after games. If I had taken a full-time job instead of a part-time job, I'd probably be agonizing with guilt over having to quit or ask for reduced hours after less than a year of servitude. (Plus I'd be real tired, cause this whole pregnancy thing is hard work.) But my question is this: when and how am I going to learn to be happy with the choices I make, to make the most of the hand I've dealt myself and to stop questioning everything I do? I know there's no such thing as a perfect choice in life... but I'll admit there's a part of me hoping that somehow, somewhere in the Calendar of My Future there's a day penciled in where I will wake up and be certain, absolutely certain, that I'm there, that I got it right.

And when I get to that day, will there still be Dorito crumbs on my floor?

Sunday, April 09, 2006

What to eat when you're expecting

Y'all have posted some very nice comments affirming my fetus-given right to turn this bad boy into a pregnancy blog, and for your encouragement I thank you. But trust me: this shit's gonna get old real fast. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Today is Sunday, my first day off from the Land of Library Crazies in what feels like forever. So far I've spent it watching Felicity DVDs, doing laundry, and letting the dog kiss me on the mouth. And eating. Can we have a conversation about the eating?

Here the thing: I've always been a big eater. I think most diets are misogynistic crap, unless someone's sick or morbidly obese or eating nothing but cake for every meal or something. I like to have a full belly, and I like to eat things that taste good, and sometimes even things that make me feel good. Which is why the first trimester of my pregnancy was such a bitch. Because me and food? We just weren't seeing eye to eye.

From the time I first found out I was packing the unborn, I started trying to eat three solid meals a day. Breakfast, as it turned out, wasn't that hard. I'd eat a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit, and a Carnation breakfast drink (allegedly full of vitamins but probably actually toxic). All three usually went down without a fuss. My "morning sickness" never really quite figured out that it was supposed to strike in the, you know, AM hours. It would just kind of hover around playing Scrabble with my bladder until about noonish, when it would get restless and start picking a meaningless fight with the other organs.

It was always about this time every day that I'd find myself in the car, driving from Job 1 to Job 2, trying to choke down the turkey sandwich that the husband lovingly prepared for me the night before. He made the sandwiches for me nightly, microwaving the deli meat until steaming to ward off food-borne infections like the psycho pregnancy books instructed. When I told my midwife (yes, I made the switch) about this, she said, essentially, "Yo, that's crap, they're called COLD cuts for a reason," but did encourage me to switch from turkey to lean roast beef, just cause it's less salty. So I did. And from that point on, I spent every noon hour in the car, trying to choke down the roast beef sandwich that the husband lovingly prepared for me the night before.

By the time I reached the afternoon shift at the library, the state of my stomach was always sketchy at best. I drank gallons of water. I sucked on lemon candy and snuck contraband crackers out to the reference desk. I took deep gulps of air and tried to take it minute by minute, hour by hour, until I could finally go home and face the ultimate challenge: DINNER.

For the first three months of pregnancy, dinner at our house went like this: the husband would survey the contents of our cupboards, after which he would compose a brief oral presentation about said contents, occasionally employing the use of visual aids (a can of tuna held invitingly in one hand, for example, or a fat purple eggplant washed until gleaming). I would listen carefully to the list of options, stopping my beloved in mid-statement the instant a single word coming out of his mouth failed to make me want to vomit. Whatever that word was, that's what we would eat. Sometimes, it was eggs. Other times, it was asparagus. Once, it was fruit salad. That was a particularly gaseous occasion.

And then, about a week and a half ago? It all changed. I always wondered how that could be, how your second trimester could really be this instant breath of mythic fresh air that everyone said it would be, how your body could just switch from three months of hell to three months of daisies at the drop of a hat. But now, as far as food is concerned anyway, I'm a believer... because for the past week and a half, all I've wanted to do is eat. And eat and eat and eat. Which is good, because at my last visit to the midwife she said I'm not gaining as much weight as she'd like. And so I shovel it in.

On Friday, I ate two breakfasts, followed by a snack on the way to work. I ate lunch in the middle of the day, then a snack on my afternoon break, followed by (I'm not proud of this, but the fetus could not be persuaded otherwise) a fast-food cheeseburger and fries on the way home. Once at home, I ate some yoghurt and a pudding cup. And then we went out for Thai food. Which I snarfed down, even though the red curry I ordered, which was advertised as a delicious combo of chicken, mixed vegetables, and bamboo shoots, turned out to contain ACTUAL MIXED VEGETABLES, as in the little bits of frozen peas and carrots and corn that you eat in your elementary school cafeteria, which is just uncalled for in any circumstance, even for a pregnant lady who would consider eating paste if it was served with chips for dipping.

You think I'm kidding. All I'm saying is: hide your perishables.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Hot Mess Library Patron of the Week

A woman with a ridiculously loud voice called the reference desk, screeching into the phone: "Can you help me? I'm looking for the name of the colored girl who goes on 'Oprah' all the time wearing little short skirts. I think she's a performer... I don't know, she's Oprah's best friend."

I gritted my teeth and started to page through the guest list on Oprah's website, but after about three minutes or so the woman answered her own question. "Oh, I know," she shouted. "It's Tina Turner!" And then she hung up.

Runner-up: A woman called the reference desk to ask for the definition of a medical term. I looked it up in a medical dictionary and read her the description: it was, essentially, an irritation of the skin. The woman thanked me, and then asked: "Does it say how long I have to live?"

Thursday, April 06, 2006

What to expect when you're expecting (as far as I can tell so far)

Your first pregnancy symptom will not be morning sickness. It will not be achiness, cramps, or even necessarily a missed period. Your first pregnancy symptom will be itchy nipples, and it will turn you into a big boob-scratching freak. This will be no ordinary itch. No, it will feel as if it's seeping from your pores like blood, and you will scratch at it without concern for those who may be watching, and lo, the patrons in the public library where you staff a very public reference desk will be shocked and appalled.

For almost the entirety of your first trimester, your relationship with food will be adversarial. Which will be a problem, because you will feel nauseous any time your stomach becomes remotely empty. You will try to combat this by eating anything and everything that happens to sound appealing to you at a given moment. This means entire meals of nothing but melon.

Until one day, when you are about twelve weeks pregnant, when you will become suddenly, inexplicably ravenous. From this point on, you will be so hungry that you will consider eating your own face, just cause it's there.

Have you ever heard about the "glow" that pregnant women supposedly give off? Yeah. That's gas.

You will try to buy pregnancy books that you and your partner can read. You will spend hours doing this. You will determine that only earthy artists and hyper-suburban nutcases write pregnancy books. You will learn that if you do not breastfeed your baby, the child will grow up to be an illiterate terrorist. You will learn that if you want your child to go to college, you must sign her up for an in utero Montessori program. You will learn that drinking Diet Coke while pregnant will make your baby grow a snout.

If you happen to be unfortunate enough to experience some "spotting" or bleeding halfway through your first trimester, do not under any circumstances check yourself into the only ER in town without a maternity ward, no matter how crowded or chaotic the other ERs are. Listen to your instincts when your gut tells you that any hospital that has to order out for ultrasound techs like they were ordering out for Chinese food is not the hospital for you and Cletus the Fetus. And when they bring in a catheter and insist that filling up your bladder like a gas tank is the only way to prepare your insides for their moment in the spotlight, remind them that simply watching reruns of "ER" on TNT does not actually make them medically qualified.

When your ER ultrasound results come back normal, the male "doctor" who has been "treating" you may choose to share this good news with you while shuffling his feet, refusing to make eye contact, and giggling like a little girl. He may advise you to "I don't know... rest... drink fluids... you know..." as if you were not a bleeding pregnant woman. Do not hurt this doctor. He is but a minion of The Man, one who will always make more money than you but who secretly flexes his muscles and does the White Man Overbite in front of his bedroom mirror every night while listening to the Dave Matthews Band and talking to imaginary women.

Monday, April 03, 2006

How I learned to stop worrying and tell the blog world my secret

About two months ago I took a home pregnancy test. I did it on a whim one morning, right after getting out of bed. It was positive. I sat on the toilet and clutched the test for about ten minutes, staring at it like I was waiting for it to yell "Psych!" and scamper away. Then I ran out of the house in jeans and my pajama top and bought two more tests, each a different brand. I brought them home, drank some water, and peed on them like it was going out of style. They were both positive.

This is the part where I always expected to lose my shit. To run away in terror, or to throw a heaving temper tantrum in the name of my soon-to-be-abandoned youth and freedom, or to stroke my belly and dance a noodle-dance of joy at my unity with Mother Nature and the rich, brown earth. But I didn't. I went and got the car's oil changed, and I made myself some lunch, and I called in sick to work so that I could be around when the husband got home. When he walked in the door, I opted against enacting any kind of flowery reveal, like the kind you're always reading about in women's magazines: handing him a "Happy Father's Day" card, setting the dinner table for three, etc. Instead, I led him into the bathroom, where we had the following conversation:

Me (pointing): Look.
The husband: What?
Me: Those are pregnancy tests.
The husband: Oh. Are they positive?
Me: Yes.
The husband: WOW!
Me: Ok, can I throw them away now? Because I peed on those.

We didn't celebrate that night, because I wanted to wait until we got the results confirmed by a doctor. Which meant I had to find a doctor. Which was an endeavor in itself. But after a few days, I found myself in a little sterile doctor's office, waiting the obligatory 45 minutes past the time of my scheduled appointment to pee in a cup and have some blood drawn. After both of those tasks were completed, I waited another 30 minutes for a chance to speak with the doctor. Who eventually marched into the room, sat down in front of me, and announced that my pregnancy test had just come back negative.

And my heart just sank. I hadn't realized how much I wanted to be pregnant until that exact moment. I tried to give my best impression of a person who was not about to bawl like a baby while the doctor spread me out on the table and gave me an exam. A painful exam. After which she announced, "You might have ovarian cysts. But I think you're ectopic. I'm sending you for an emergency ultrasound." Clearly, this woman got an A+ on her Bedside Manner final exam.

So I left, went home, and cried and cried and cried. I read everything I could find about ectopic pregnancy, which is where the fertilized egg gets stuck outside the uterus, usually in the fallopian tubes. I called first thing the next morning to schedule my "emergency" ultrasound and was told that the earliest the hospital could schedule me was three days later. I freaked out on the phone. The scheduling lady was not amused. I tried to go about my life. The husband and I had a half-hearted Valentine's Day dinner, during which he sweetly assured me that he would be just as happy adopting babies as he would be having them ourselves.

The day of the ultrasound, I was instructed to show up with a full bladder. The doctor warned me that if my bladder wasn't full enough, they wouldn't be able to do the ultrasound and my appointment might be given to someone else. So I drank water, lots and lots of water. So much water, as it turned out, that when we arrived at the hospital I marched up to the registration desk and announced "I'm going to pee in my pants and all over this floor if I'm not seen RIGHT NOW." The desk attendant, to her credit, nodded with understanding and said, "I'll let them know you're ready." And within minutes, my name was called and I was spread out on another table, stripped to my skivvies.

The ultrasound tech was a huge burly guy. Before this, my whole concept of an ultrasound, based entirely on movies and "A Baby Story" on TLC, involved a pregnant lady and her partner sitting in a bright cheery room, gazing at a picture on a screen, interpreted for them by a soothing FEMALE doctor. But here I was in a dark cubicle walled off by curtains, two steps shy of buck naked, alone, with a big-ass dude squirting gel on my stomach. I was less than pleased.

But then. THEN. The dude brought out the internal ultrasound. Did any of you (those of you without kids anyway) know that there is an internal ultrasound? Why did no one tell me about the internal ultrasound? The internal ultrasound, people? Is a DILDO. I am neither kidding nor being unnecessarily crass. It's a freaking dildo, complete with condom and lube, which this big stranger of a guy was handing to me and telling me to "insert." I just stared at him, all "um, seriously?", and he was all "yes, seriously" and then he passed the thing to me and I died a million little humiliating deaths right there on the table.

As it turned out, though, the thing about the internal ultrasound, other than its forcing me to cheat on my husband with a stranger? Was that it allowed my new boyfriend the tech guy to get super-close to the important stuff in there. And after a couple of minutes of rooting around, the guy pushed some little button on his computer, swiveled the screen around to face me, and said, "I'm not supposed to interpret these results with you, but look: there's your baby. In the right place and everything." And he pushed another button. "And there's the heartbeat."

And that's all it took. There I was, being violated by a stranger in a dark room, no toilet in sight even though I was in danger of springing a leak like a broken fountain of pee, and I had never been more relieved in my life. I was officially, routinely, normally, fully-non-ectopically knocked up.

And now I'm three months pregnant. How do you like them apples?